Free There Will Come a Time by Carrie Arcos

making me a little jittery.
    I avoid everyone by looking down and keeping my earbuds in, though I don’t even have any music on. In the hallway, I pass a couple of guitarists sitting on the ground, playing dueling versions of “Stairway to Heaven.” I give them the nod and keep walking.
    I only have one more year and after that, who knows. The cutoff for early admissions to Berklee College of Music is November 1, and I’m not going to make that. I think the next deadline is mid-January, so I still have some time if I want to try to go in the fall. Dad stopped bugging me about it when I started seeing Chris. I think they both felt it was placing too much pressure on me, but my music advisor keeps asking me about my plans. She’s trying not to push, but I know she wants me to be proactive. She’s worried that I’ll miss my window of opportunity. Who says I have to go to school right away? I’m not sure I want to be in some professional orchestra. I could take the studio musician track. Maybe I could hook up with some artist and go on tour for a year or two. Everything’s uncertain now.
    I hear the music and the dancers laughing and yelling before I round the corner of the hallway. Dancers. They have no problem expressing exactly how they feel all the time and they’re always hugging or touching each other. At the moment, half of them have some kind of massage train going where they’re rubbing the person’s back in front of them. The other half has got a dance circle going.
    They ignore my attempt to be invisible and some girl pulls me into the middle of their circle. I try to get away, but more girls surround me and start shaking their bodies up against me. Normally this might not be a bad thing, but I’m just trying to get some space. I spot Levon in the group.
    â€œLevon? Help!”
    He smiles and jumps in with some amazing B-boy moves, a total distraction, allowing me to get away.
    â€œThanks, man!” I yell, backing away.
    There are two places people go on campus besides the quad and classrooms: the basement and the roof. Both are utilized for two things—ditching class and making out. The teachers know this, of course, as half of them graduated from the school. As long as we’re cool about it, they’re cool and don’t hassle us. They know we need a place to let off some steam. I’m not doing either. I just need to get some air.
    On top of the building, I’m glad to see that I’m alone. I turnaround, giving myself a panoramic view of downtown LA, the valley, and the mountains. It rained a little yesterday, so the city has been washed clean of its usual smog and you can actually see the horizon. Some people complain about LA. It’s crowded. It’s the kind of place that’ll crush your dreams rather than make them. It’s fake. But from where I’m standing, all I see is potential. All different kinds of people are smashed up against each other, which makes living here more interesting. LA’s got everything you could want within driving distance. You’ve just got to find a way to get there.
    I walk to the edge of the roof. Below me is the concrete sidewalk that connects this building to the others. The building’s not very high up, only three stories. Leaning over, I wonder if I’d walk away from the fall. I’d probably break my leg. Painful. Pointless. If I were going to jump, I’d want it to matter.
    â€œThere was this guy who did it at my old school last year,” a voice says behind me.
    I turn sharply. Near the metal air-cooling system, Brandon’s taking out his cello from its case. How did he get up here without me hearing him? “Did what?”
    â€œJumped. In the middle of the day, when we were changing classes.”
    I stare at him, wondering what he’s getting at. Is he saying this because he thinks I might do it? Because he’s thought aboutit? I size him up. White